his, and there was no change of expression when he felt
the folded bill in his palm. The paper vanished with the dexterity of many such passings, and he tilted his head with grave attention to learn
what small ser vice had been
purchased.
“If you remember, I had lunch here yesterday,” Simon began.
“Sissignore. I
remember.”
“At the same time, there was a man here
named Dino
Cartelli.”
“The man who sat down with you for a few minutes? I thought he was
English.”
“He
was. I’m talking about another customer.”
The head waiter’s forehead wrinkled above a perfectly blank face.
“Cartelli?
I do not know that name.”
Unless the man was a consummate actor, he must have been telling the truth; and the
Saint would usually back his own judgment
against any modern electronic substitute. If
it was not letting him down, then, Cartelli had not merely been re luctant to be recognized: he had a new name now and did not even want to be reminded of the old.
“An Italian,” Simon said. “In
a light gray suit. Heavy,
almost bald, with a deep rough voice. He was sitting with a younger man at that table
there.”
This time he had even less need of a lie
detector, as the man’s
eyes swivelled in the direction of the pointing finger and swivelled back again
to focus on the Saint with a pronounced diminution of cor diality.
“I do not remember such a man, signore. You realize, Napoli is a big city, and this is a busy restaurant. It is impossible
to know everyone. Mi rincresce molto.”
He escorted Simon to the door, multiplying
his protestations
of regret, but not saddened enough by his inability to help to be moved to refund the money that had already settled in his pocket.
He would need absolution for perjury before
he partook of another Mass, but Simon realized that it would have been a waste of time to
discuss this with him.
Outside, the doorman, not yet gorgeous in
his coat of office, was stolidly sweeping the night’s debris from the stretch of sidewalk over
which he reigned. The
Saint approached him and said: “Do you remember a man who was here for lunch yes terday—rather stout, bald, with a grating
voice, in a gray suit?”
Folding money between Simon’s fingertips promised gratitude in advance, and the
doorman’s hand started an automatic move towards it before the full import of the question drilled into
his head. With comprehension came reaction, and his fingers jerked back as if from the touch of a hot
iron. He glanced apprehensively
over his shoulder, and a drowned-fish
expression washed over his face.
“Non mi ricordo,” he gabbled. “We have so many customers, I forget all of them.”
He
returned to his sweeping with far more in dustrious concentration than he had shown
before.
Simon looked where the doorman’s eyes had
swerved, and saw the head waiter still lurking in the doorway. With a shrug of resignation, he turned and strode away.
The visual impression that he had given up lasted only until he rounded the next corner.
Then immediately
his stride lengthened and quickened as he circled the block to approach the
restaurant from the
opposite side. This was somewhat easier begun than accomplished, for there are few
such things- as
“blocks” in the American sense in any Italian city—there are only
chunks and gobbets of buildings of all
ages and stages of decrepitude, in tersected
by a completely haphazard network of streets
and stairways that would seem to have been laid out by a jigsaw puzzle fan
rather than a cartographer. Calling upon his sense of direction for a
prodigious effort, the Saint managed to achieve his purpose with an accuracy which, in the Africa of H. Rider Haggard, might have earned him the
cognomen of Lord of the Labyrinths, or He-Who-Finds-All-Crooked-Paths. In a
surprisingly short time he had completed the meandering detour and was leaning against the wall of the adjacent
building, out of sight of anyone who did not step all the way out of the restaurant,
the folded bill in his palm. The paper vanished with the dexterity of many such passings, and he tilted his head with grave attention to learn
what small ser vice had been
purchased.
“If you remember, I had lunch here yesterday,” Simon began.
“Sissignore. I
remember.”
“At the same time, there was a man here
named Dino
Cartelli.”
“The man who sat down with you for a few minutes? I thought he was
English.”
“He
was. I’m talking about another customer.”
The head waiter’s forehead wrinkled above a perfectly blank face.
“Cartelli?
I do not know that name.”
Unless the man was a consummate actor, he must have been telling the truth; and the
Saint would usually back his own judgment
against any modern electronic substitute. If
it was not letting him down, then, Cartelli had not merely been re luctant to be recognized: he had a new name now and did not even want to be reminded of the old.
“An Italian,” Simon said. “In
a light gray suit. Heavy,
almost bald, with a deep rough voice. He was sitting with a younger man at that table
there.”
This time he had even less need of a lie
detector, as the man’s
eyes swivelled in the direction of the pointing finger and swivelled back again
to focus on the Saint with a pronounced diminution of cor diality.
“I do not remember such a man, signore. You realize, Napoli is a big city, and this is a busy restaurant. It is impossible
to know everyone. Mi rincresce molto.”
He escorted Simon to the door, multiplying
his protestations
of regret, but not saddened enough by his inability to help to be moved to refund the money that had already settled in his pocket.
He would need absolution for perjury before
he partook of another Mass, but Simon realized that it would have been a waste of time to
discuss this with him.
Outside, the doorman, not yet gorgeous in
his coat of office, was stolidly sweeping the night’s debris from the stretch of sidewalk over
which he reigned. The
Saint approached him and said: “Do you remember a man who was here for lunch yes terday—rather stout, bald, with a grating
voice, in a gray suit?”
Folding money between Simon’s fingertips promised gratitude in advance, and the
doorman’s hand started an automatic move towards it before the full import of the question drilled into
his head. With comprehension came reaction, and his fingers jerked back as if from the touch of a hot
iron. He glanced apprehensively
over his shoulder, and a drowned-fish
expression washed over his face.
“Non mi ricordo,” he gabbled. “We have so many customers, I forget all of them.”
He
returned to his sweeping with far more in dustrious concentration than he had shown
before.
Simon looked where the doorman’s eyes had
swerved, and saw the head waiter still lurking in the doorway. With a shrug of resignation, he turned and strode away.
The visual impression that he had given up lasted only until he rounded the next corner.
Then immediately
his stride lengthened and quickened as he circled the block to approach the
restaurant from the
opposite side. This was somewhat easier begun than accomplished, for there are few
such things- as
“blocks” in the American sense in any Italian city—there are only
chunks and gobbets of buildings of all
ages and stages of decrepitude, in tersected
by a completely haphazard network of streets
and stairways that would seem to have been laid out by a jigsaw puzzle fan
rather than a cartographer. Calling upon his sense of direction for a
prodigious effort, the Saint managed to achieve his purpose with an accuracy which, in the Africa of H. Rider Haggard, might have earned him the
cognomen of Lord of the Labyrinths, or He-Who-Finds-All-Crooked-Paths. In a
surprisingly short time he had completed the meandering detour and was leaning against the wall of the adjacent
building, out of sight of anyone who did not step all the way out of the restaurant,